


Of Monsters and Men

by Aeire



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Original Character(s), Psychological Trauma, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeire/pseuds/Aeire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being abandoned by his beloved, the Opera Ghost substitutes another to take Christine's place by any means necessary. But human hearts are not so easily corrupted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Monsters and Men

 

**Of Monsters and Men**

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to Phantom of the Opera. Really. I wasn’t even born._

 

Phantom Note: The tale takes place five years after the burning of the Opera House.

Beta’d by the wonderful [**Raxacoriocofallapatorius**](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4659972/) and **Deception is Decepticon**. Dozens of lemon and cherry pastries for you both.

* * *

_Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit,” – E. E Cummings_

* * *

 

**Chapter I: _Curiouser and Curiouser_**

**December 22, 1881**

_Amelie_

She wiped her brow and surveyed the floor. Nearly half done, but it seemed like it would take forever to finish. Her back ached from crouching for so long and her fingers were wrinkled. Her knees felt like they would collapse anytime soon.

"Meg Giry, thank you for getting us into trouble,” the young girl deadpanned before rubbing her shoulders. After a few moments, she opened jar of wax before dipping a rag into it.

"Oh hush, we would not have been caught if a certain someone could lie a little better," the blonde beauty chided. A mop quietly swished before it was squeezed to allow water drip into a bucket.

"To your mother? Meg! Her glare terrifies me."

"Amelie, you only needed to mention we were heading to the costume room. But Dear Lord, to say we were looking for a ‘supernatural entity’?" Meg quoted in dismay as she shook her head. “You might as well have told her we were looking for the Phantom.”

"I have yet to see your fascination with this rumour. Whatever this Ghost is, it's just an old wives' tale," her friend exasperated.

"It is not a rumour! He still exists! And he is here somewhere! What happened to Christine is not a rumour, he's real."

"The next time you want to gallivant into the basement, please leave me out of this! You know your mother forbade us from going anywhere near there!" Amelie frowned, somewhat concerned. Meg’s continued fascination with the ghost left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Oh honestly, what is a little fun between friends?" Meg dipped her mop into the bucket, and continued to clean the floors.

"Fun that we are stuck here cleaning the stage floor when everyone else has gone Christmas shopping? Meg. This. Is. Not. Amusing," Amelie said with a glare.

“That was today?"

"Is it not the twenty-second?"

"... Merde." Meg froze and stared at her friend with wide eyes.

"Language, Meg!" Amelie scolded. Although Meg was nearly three years older, it felt like Amelie was the older of the two at times. She stood up to retie her skirts tightly to her legs and surveyed the floor. It was nearly three quarters done with their work together for the past hour. Between mopping and waxing, the girls worked with minimal complaints throughout.

"No really, I forgot that was today. Dear Lord, I needed to go to Madame Debois' shop today! The shop closes after dinner time for the holidays!"

"The costume shop? Why would you need to? Meg, we are living in a theatre," Amelie reasoned, offhandedly waving to the hundreds of theatre seats facing them. "There are plenty of materials you can use here."

"No, I cannot. These are special; I need them for Mama's gift and my Masquerade dress! We need to hurry before the shop closes!" Meg panicked. "It will not reopen until after the New Years, and by then I will have little time to make my dress! Amelie, we need to hurry!"

Amelie stared at her friend for a short moment before biting her lip. There was only a little bit of the flooring left to wax and wash, and dinner was nearing soon. Meg had a point though; the masquerade would be during New Year’s Eve, a week and a half from now.

"I can finish this up," Amelie relented. She may have been disappointed for not being able to shop for Christmas, but it was not like she had any money to begin with. Besides, at least the job would keep her occupied. A tiny part of her was a little relieved that she had an excuse from parading with Meg to the town square. She wouldn’t be reminded of the lack of money and awkwardly staring at windows, too afraid to enter shops and peruse for pretty baubles.

Meg squealed happily and dropped her mop. The mop knocked entire bucket of dirty water onto the newly waxed floor.

Meg bounded towards her friend, unaware, and exuberantly crushed Amelie in a hug.

Amelie looked at the newly waxed floors covered in sludge and bit her lips harder from screaming. With an awkward pat to her friend's shoulder, Amelie bit her lip hard and reluctantly waved goodbye to her friend dashing away.

"I promise to get you a pastry in the shops! No, two pastries! Cherry, right? Thank you, Amelie!" Meg bounded towards the backstage, yelling.

"Lemon, Meg! It's lemon!" Amelie yelled back, cupping her hands to her mouth to amplify. The rag she held hit her face slightly. Hearing no reply, Amelie hoped Meg heard her.  Wiping her damp cheek, she looked at the fallen mop bucket and groaned. In a peak of frustration, she threw her rag onto the floor.

Between the waxing the newly dirtied floor and everything else, it took her a good hour before Amelie was finally finished. Putting the cleaning supplies away and wiping her hands clean, she looked at the shining floors and was tempted to be the very first to dance.

Dancing on a newly waxed floor was like playing in fresh snow; the floor was pristine – no mars or scrapes and the different texture below her feet allowed for gliding. Rushing to put away her apron and don her ballet shoes and leotard, she was glad that the theatre was empty. Christmas was approaching after all. 

The Opera Populaire reopened five years after the infamous incident with the rumoured Opera Ghost and rising star, Christine de Chagny, nee Daaé. It was rumoured that the Ghost murdered the Tenor star, Piangi, and kidnapped Miss Daaé in the confusion. Piangi’s death was later listed as suicide, since there was no evidence of murder.

The details were lost in the midst of fire and screams of the hysteric audience, and the story constantly changed from one mouth to another. However, the results were always the same. The opera burned from the chandelier’s destruction, and the mob descended into the catacombs to find the elusive Opera Ghost. Anything of value was ransacked or destroyed. Christine Daaé married the handsome Raoul de Chagny after her mysterious reappearance from the kidnapping, and the Opera Ghost was never found.

With the new management company and repairs underway to restore the Opera Populaire’s former glory, several wealthy patrons sponsored the theatre. The rumours of the Opera Ghost were a subject of fascination which nobles thought could attract an audience to the theatre. Anyone who had interests in the supernatural or ethereal realm would purchase seats in hopes of catching the Ghost. Such gossip fed the box office. Though, it was not just the rumours that attracted a large audience. The Opera Populaire was famed for its productions, architectures and castings. It was one of the few theatres that performed with high expectations, and anything to tarnish that image meant disgrace.

Meg Giry, a beauty at twenty years old, had an odd fascination with the legend of the Opera Ghost, and would never hesitate to make a reference to the strange happenings inside the theatre. Once, a stack of brooms collapsed after a particularly horrid rehearsal for Hannibal, probably due to excessive weight, and Meg Giry was sprouting that the Phantom was nearby.

Amelie Ventura, a slight girl of seventeen with light brown eyes and mussed auburn hair, would simply roll her eyes and amuse her friend. Her Italian family name associated with her given French name was uncommon, but in the midst of a grand theatre and a student of the ballet choir, Amelie Ventura was a nobody to the ton and the world. Her ballet sisters looked to her as a friend, and Madame Giry looked to her like a daughter. And really, that was all it mattered. That, along with her dancing and books.

Amelie was taken into care by Madame Giry six months after the Opera Populaire was burned. Between worrying if her children would be fed and if a roof would be provided over their heads, Madame Giry was nothing short of amazing and generous to even accept another desperate mouse of two and ten.

Due to Christine’s relation with Meg and Madame Giry, Christine’s new husband saw fit to oversee their welfare for his dear wife’s childhood friend and surrogate mother. And so, the ballet choir was given a small studio near the theatre as a temporary home with a small monthly stipend for food and other necessities.

When news of the Opera Populaire reached about reconstructing and new management productions, no one was happier than Madame Giry and her daughter. Their life was dedicated to the opera and ballet. The near loss of their livelihood made them exuberant with happiness and gratitude once they were informed of the good news.

The renovations of the Opera Populaire were spectacular. Due to the harnessing of electricity in commercial carbon light bulbs by Thomas Edison in 1879, it allowed renovators to incorporate the new technology in the chandelier and stage lights. The wealthy patrons, inspired by both their love of the arts and new money, spared no expense to reprise the theatre of its former glory.

Anyone who had seen the Opera Populaire would swear by God that it has been carved by angels. And anyone who had seen any of the productions would swear by God that nothing else can compare.

But for now, it was Amelie who was seen practicing on the theatre stage after hours when seemingly everyone has gone shopping to prepare for Christmas and the upcoming masquerade. Her feet were sore, and her muscles were aching after the long hours of rehearsal for the production of Hannibal, and also from the recent cleanup of the stage floor.

After Madame Giry took her in, Amelie did everything to repay back by obedience and quietness. For as long as Amelie could remember, she was only taught to obey and do her duties. And she would do her duties well.

As she turned on a couple of stage lights and peered out into the seats, she wondered if there was a feeling of awe that inspired anyone on stage. The production of Hannibal would be the first time Amelie would be on casted in front of an audience. Feeling giddy and excited, she wondered how a full opera house would look like.

Amelie shyly took to the stage to practice her dances. She wanted to be better than just good. She wanted to show Madame Giry that her instructions would not be wasted on her.

The theatre was loud with silence, and it was daunting. With quiet determination, she imagined a vast audience and proceeded to dance.

Normally, a ballet dancer would require starting at six years old at the very least. Amelie was very late in learning, but endless nights of practicing to exhaustion and fierce determination helped her achieve to a level where the other ballet girls were at, if not a little better. She would sneak into any abandoned dressing room and practice as much as she could before she was missed and wake early to continue. The first year was horrible, painful and frustrating; pirouettes, splits, flexibility and to actually _jump and extend her legs_ was nearly impossible even by the second year. She lost count of how many callouses, bleeding toes and bruises within a week of starting. Amelie had plenty of accidents in knocking furniture down around to do this movement, not to mention the multiple times she collided into her friends.

Now, it was all worth it.

 _I still need to keep my leg straight_ , she noted as she landed with right leg extended perpendicular to the floor. _Alright, there is two weeks left. If I can practice like this for the next week from dawn to breakfast, I can at least work on my flexibility._

Taking a breather, Amelie sat down on the stage and peered into the audience.

“Really, I have no idea how anyone performing won’t faint,” Amelie murmured absently. She stood up to clean herself and ready for dinner, but she stopped before she took another step.

With a mischievous look, she looked around thoroughly for any signs of people before taking to the stage again. She felt a bit courageous and wondered if she would ever have the stage to herself again. And to imagine herself as a Diva, an impossible dream, to take the stage like it was rightfully hers, and to bring hundreds of people to standing ovation. She felt somewhat empowered and humbled. But more importantly, to let her soul fly through words of poetry and beauty into the ears of God would be a gift in itself.

Amelie took a shaky breath before shyly started to sing a prayer close to her heart, fit for the upcoming holidays.

 _Nuit de Paix, Sainte Nuit._  
Dans l'étable aucun bruit.  
Dans le ciel tout repose en paix.  
Mais soudain dans l'air pur et frais.  
Le brillant coeur des anges  
Aux bergers apparaît.

As the final note died out, Amelie clasped her hands in prayer.

“Please Lord, bless Madame Giry for her generous heart, and taking me in as student and daughter. Please bless Meg Giry for her unfailing kindness and for everyone else to have a blessed holiday,” she prayed nearly silently.

She paused a little, wondering if she should humour Meg’s fantasy. “And if the Opera Ghost truly exists, please bless him with a joyous holiday as well. Amen.”

Amelie sighed and blinked. Right, dinner time now. She hoped Meg remembered to get her lemon tarts.

 

As she turned away to shut off the stage lights, the shadows played tricks upon Box Five.

* * *

 

“But he is so handsome!”

“You saw him? Annette, you are so lucky!”

A mass of giggles followed. “Oh I know, I just wish he would actually look at me,” Annette pouted. “He had the bluest eyes, oh I can just stare at him and be in love forever,” she giggled.

“One of the wealthiest patrons, and he’s a bachelor!” her friend, Violette, exclaimed.

“And he’s young as well!” Meg piped in. “Amelie can attest to that, she saw him too!”

“Oh tell us! Where did you see him? We must meet him as soon as possible!” Annette pleaded.

“I am not sure; he mostly visits randomly to check up on rehearsals. Mama usually talks to him about the choir; I’m so lucky I’m around her to see his beautiful face!” Meg exclaimed, “But, I hear that he’s going to attend the Masquerade. Best suit up, girls, if you want to catch him. He’s handsome, rich and young. What possibly more could you want?” Meg reasoned.

She had a sparkle in her eyes whenever she talked about young, handsome men. Although Madame Giry protected her daughter fiercely from the wandering gaze of unmarried men, Meg Giry threw caution to the wind.

Amelie didn’t say anything as she prepared for bed, twisting her tongue around her mouth to get rid of the cherry flavoured tarts. While she was disappointed it wasn’t lemon, the pastry still should not go to waste.

True, she saw the claimed handsome bachelor, but other than his aesthetics, money and charming personality, there was really little else. Monsieur Stefan de Fontinelle was the son of the wealthy patrons sponsoring the theatre. To be blunt, Amelie had no idea why such a man of thirty was still unmarried or otherwise engaged. His parents, the Honourable André de Fontinelle and his wife, Regine, have expressed little concern over his marital status – a shocking feat to the masses, but their respectable standing deterred from too much gossip.

“Amelie, you’ve seen him, haven’t you? Isn’t he so handsome?” Annette squealed happily as she hugged her pillow to her chest. “I would die if he would ever look at me! Oh, I so want to be his wife!”

Amelie’s eyes widened incredulously. “U-uhm, well perhaps he is? I haven’t met him personally to say for sure, but Annette, you’ve only just seen him, why rush into marriage so quickly?”

“Why not? We are not getting any younger. I would gladly accept his proposal if he were to ask right now. It would be like a Cinderella story, a rich, young prince to carry you away off into the sunset! Just like the ones you read to us when we were little!” Annette exclaimed, wrapping a blanket around her body and rolling around it giddily.

“Oh Amelie, your face just says it all,” Meg giggled as her friend grimaced and bit her lip. “You really don’t find Monsieur Fontinelle appealing?”

“I-I… well, I think we should be focusing on the theatre, first. And, Madame Giry said she would never approve if one of us are distracted by someone like him,” Amelie stuttered and clung to her pillow.

“Oh, poor Amelie, she always follows whatever Mama says,” Meg giggled.

Amelie blushed. “I just don’t want us to get into trouble. We should really be focusing on our performance and rehearsals. Heaven knows, I really don’t think we should talking about marriage. We are too young!”

“Too young? Young? Meg, please enlighten me when our star Christine Daaé married,” Violette asked impudently.

“I believe she was nearing her sixteenth birthday.”

“Exactly, Christine Daaé was only fifteen when she met her two suitors, and she was engaged around at that age, too! Amelie, I really think you’re going to grow into an old biddy if you find excuses from love and romance,” Violette said condescendingly.

Amelie grimaced and ignored the latter sentence. “It was only the Vicomte de Chagny who proposed to her.”

“No, you’re forgetting someone extremely important,” Violette paused dramatically. When silence answered her, “He’s currently living in our theatre. How can you not know this?”

“Madame Giry doesn’t allow male residents at the theatre. What are you talking about?” Amelie frowned in confusion. She was sure that no one was allowed to sleep in the theatre other than the ballet choir.

“The Opera Ghost,” Annette whispered into cupped hands, as if afraid someone might overhear. God forbid if the Ghost actually listened in on their conversation.

Amelie frowned and rolled her eyes. “You know perfectly well there is no such thing. I’m heading off to bed, and I suggest you do the same. We have rehearsals again in the morning.”

“Why won’t you believe us, Amelie?”

“Ghosts do not exist. And the person who might have caused the fire years ago or even kidnap Christine, was most definitely not a ghost. He must have been a man,” Amelie said exasperatedly, repeating it for the thousandth time. “You can’t _touch_ ghosts.”

“But he was never found! How can you explain that?”

“He hid himself. Honestly, it shouldn’t be hard to hide behind something if you’re escaping a bloodthirsty mob. And that’s just assuming he’s _real._ Now please, can we go to bed?”

But Amelie’s thoughts were running through her mind, even after the candles were snuffed out and the whispering of other ballet girls stopped. It was not the conversation of the Opera Ghost that bothered her; it was the prospect of marriage.

Marriage. The thought never came to her when she was dancing or servicing the noble families her entire life. The obvious facts were: she had no parents to set up her suitors or prospects, or even a dowry. She had no standing, or even prominent connections. She barely stepped out of the theatre to meet new people. In fact, the only men she talked to were the stagehands responsible for the theatre’s equipment. Though limited, it was still some sort of experience.

Being sheltered by Madame Giry and her unwillingness to talk to other people outside of the theatre made Amelie the most unlikely choice to be married. Meg though… beautiful Meg had dozens of suitors lined up. With sparkling blue eyes and golden hair, it was plainly obvious the girl must be protected by her mother nearly every day. There was no reason for a man not to be attracted by her; and if Meg was still unsuited for marriage, there was absolutely no chance for her to find someone as well.

Besides, didn’t she say before that they really needed to focus on their dance performance?

Sleep now gone, Amelie blindly searched for her book in the dark. She might as well read. Sleep would come easier if she read instead.

Not wanting to disturb her friends, she lit a small candle and strode towards the door. She had one destination in mind, and that was the room with the large mirror.

She used this room for months, and absolutely loved it. Whether it was dance practice or a getaway to read, the silence of the room drew her like a moth to a flame. Meg once said it was Christine’s room before she married, and no one used it since.

The room was ornamented in lavish colours. The bed drapes were made out of silk, and candles were placed nearly everywhere on wardrobes. Inside the room, a large mirror stood ominously at the side. The vanity desk was large enough to fit a Diva’s entire makeup set and more. Since the room was never used anymore after the Opera Ghost incident, many thought it was best to stay away in case of an unfortunate accident.

Amelie opened the door and stepped inside. Her books and stacks of paper were littered across the vanity desk as she made haste to light the candles in the room.

When she was a maid in one of the noble’s house, she made an effort to learn how to read when one of the Master’s children was tutored. She knew some of the basics before; how to write the alphabets and pronounce simple words.

However, books held infinite knowledge and wisdom, and she needed to learn more. Each and every day, she would tidy up the master’s children’s books and take some of the notes to look over and read. Sometimes, she would listen in on the children’s tutor for pronunciation practice, too.

In three months, filled a lot of eavesdropping, nightly studying and borrowing of her Master’s books, she could read simple fairy tales and poetry.

Eventually, she wanted more than stories and myths. One of her masters, a professor at a distant university, specialized in the human body. Often, he worked long hours over his books and papers. When she tidied her Master’s literary essays on the human body, she researched furiously on the complicated technical names. Often, she would point at her body and mutter the technical name when no one was around during chores.

For a girl that would furiously obey her Masters, she could not help but disobey in this societal norm. Knowledge should not be limited to the people born in a higher class or even _gender_ , as ignorance bred hatred and fear. She learned that particular lesson when travelling; darker skinned people were sold like cattle and she often had to hear slurs thrown around like dirt.

Flipping her small leather book open, she perused through the medical notes she acquired from her previous employment. After, she cross referenced with the texts she conveniently found within the theatre. It was odd; finding these books – seemingly it had nothing to do theatre production. No one sane would leave dozen of francs worth of books lying behind a hidden theatre door. She was only able to find them after playing a game of Hide and Seek with some of the ballet girls.

There was a reason why she believed the Opera Ghost was not technically a ghost. Only a physical being was allowed to move inanimate objects, as one of Newton’s Law clearly stated, ‘For every force, there is an opposite and equal force applied.’ Physic and its mathematics were still lost to her, and the technical names were even more complicated than biology – but she understood the simple concepts before effectively deciding not to try her hands on arithmetic.

Ghosts were apparitions at best, they cannot move an object if they are translucent. But of course, Amelie would never explain this concept to her friends. It was already bad enough they knew she didn’t believe in ghosts, but to find out she was partially educated in the sciences, too? Well, it wouldn’t be done.

She read a part of the textbook that suggested that there were small organisms capable of causing infections. Biology was still in its earliest forms, and there were many misleading information. After all, it was once thought the world was flat, so there was always a possibility of organisms smaller than an ant that can actually kill people despite being disreputed multiple times.

Jotting down notes with a small charcoal stick, she squinted her eyes and continued to read. Time passed indefinitely, but Amelie pushed through the faint fatigue and stifled her yawns.

She was just starting on the Louis Pasteur’s Spontaneous Germ Theory, when a crash resounded.

Amelie jumped with a shriek and looked around.

“H-Hello?” She asked warily. Strange, it sounded as if it was coming inside the room. No objects fell and everything seemed so still.

Amelie stood and shocked herself when her eyes landed at the mantel; the timepiece on it indicated it was a scant few hours before dawn. Frantically, she tidied her notes and hid the textbooks underneath old story books. Blowing out all the candles except one, she pocketed her small notebook and made it towards the door. Closing the door behind her, a white flash caught her eye on the floor beneath her slippers.

“A letter?” To her horror, Amelie’s name was printed on the envelope in elegant handwriting. “Is anyone there? Hello?”

Silence answered her back in the darkness. Eyeing the envelope for a moment, she opened the letter and read it in the candlelight.

_Miss Ventura,_

_As childishly endearing as your nightly adventures are,  
I will not tolerate a mishap in your performance._

_Should I ever find your recital lacking, the consequences are dire._  
You still have much to practice.  
However, I find myself intrigued of your voice.  
Untutored and inexperienced, yes.  
Do refrain from inciting God into your songs.  
After all, if you do not believe in Ghosts, how can you believe  
in God?

_Your Obedient Servant,_

_\- O.G._  
  
P.S. If you wish to be taught, sing once more. I will hear you.

“My reading adventures are endearing?!” Amelie seethed indignantly. The mortification that she was being treated like a child was soon overcame by the panic of a potential eavesdropping stranger. Beyond embarrassed and frightened, she sealed the letter and tucked into her pocket.

Her mind hastily recalled the signature at the end of the letter. As much as she liked to deny, the evidence was in her hands and the thoughts of the girls’ gossip and Meg’s warnings came to fruition.

She rationalized that, perhaps, one of the girls wanted to make a fool out of her. Or perhaps that it was her ballet instructor, Madame Giry. Her first name was Antoinette and the last, of course, was Giry. Amelie bit her lip in thought. It certainly sounded logical. After all, her brain was bombarded with facts and new knowledge of the texts. In addition, the lighting in the hallway was extremely poor. The letter ‘O’ must have simply been written off in a hasty letter ‘A’. Perhaps Madame Giry was concerned for her wellbeing, but she ought to have wondered why she would be interested in her singing in the first place.

 “Gods, Amelie, what did you get into now?” she scolded herself. She was just tired, she reasoned, and in no mood to play make believe.

Rushing to bed quietly, she immediately hid her letter within her book and covered her head with the blanket as if to ward herself from prying eyes. She was shaken at the fact someone may have known about her reading and academics. Though, how could there possibly be a leak? She thoroughly checked for occupants and always snuck around in the dark. In case if there was one, she decided to delay any further visits the dress room for a couple days to avoid suspicion.

And she _definitely_ won’t sing anymore, not if she can help it. Besides, she would rather face Madame Giry’s wrath if she were the one who wrote the letter. Satisfied and thoroughly convinced that Madame Giry only warned her of her wandering, she punched her pillow in frustration. Her foolishness would’ve been discovered sooner or later.

Despite all that, she wanted to see her books soon. With a fading thought, she just hoped that whatever she wrote in her notebook would last her interests for a while.

 

* * *

_“I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole — and yet — and yet — it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!”_

_\- Alice, Alice in Wonderland_

* * *

End Note: *Chapter titled borrowed from _Alice in Wonderland_ by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, also known as Lewis Carrol. It’s not _Curious and Curiouser_ (despite it being the popular phrase).

Thank you for reading my first chapter; I really hope you enjoyed it! I’ve been writing this story for about a year now, and I have blueprint for the rest of the story. I’m quite determined to see this through. My updates will be fairly regular, depending on my course load and homework, and if you need a reminder, check my profile for news.

In case if you were wondering, the Christmas carol – Sainte Nuit (Silent Night – in French) definitely checks out. It was created in 1818 by Franz Xaver Gruber (Original lyrics were German).

Please review this story! I would love to hear your thoughts and/or any constructive criticism you have to offer! It makes me motivated and it definitely makes my writing better.

 


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